I consider myself a fairly rational adult, not given to drama or impulse, although that wasn’t always the case in my tender years when, if I didn’t get my way, I would throw myself on the ground and flop around, screaming like an unhinged banshee. My dad helped me grow out of that phase by falling down and wailing and flailing right along beside me. Sheesh. Throwing a temper tantrum loses its appeal when done in tandem with a grown man who is so obviously bad at it that even a five-year-old gets thats she’s being made fun of. So I gave up the practice. For the most part.
Many years later, as a high school teacher, I found myself in situations that would have unbalanced a person with more delicate sensitivities. There was the time I unlocked my classroom door, which was locked mostly for show since any kid could jiggle the knob and pop the lock open, and found a little styrofoam cup filled with soil and a tiny plant sitting in the middle of my desk. How nice—one of my students had brought me an addition for my flowerbed. It looked a little anemic, but with a little sunshine it should green up nicely. While I busied myself with the housekeeping that begins a school day, something picked at the edge of my consciousness. I stopped in the middle of writing the date in the top left corner of the chalkboard—what was that little gnat of thought? Had I forgotten something? Was there a teachers’ meeting this morning? Nothing on the calendar. Did I forget to put on underwear? I checked. No, I was fully clothed. So what was bothering me? Nothing was different in the classroom except that puny potted plant. Bingo. Why would a student sneak into my room so early in the morning unless he or she didn’t want to be seen? I took a closer look, and the light in my consciousness went on high beam. It wasn’t just a potted plant; it was a pot plant.
I knew the culprit would be watching for my reaction, like a kid pushing buttons on a battery-operated toy car, hoping I would go into overdrive. Never one to give attention seekers what they want—I was much practiced at ignoring my little sister who insisted on being the center of the universe—I tucked the baby marijuana plant into my book bag and headed to the principal’s office. Still early, there were a few students in the hall, and I spoke to each one or stopped and chatted for a minute if one was so inclined. None of them seemed curious about what might be in my bag or why I was headed in the direction of the office, and I certainly didn’t give any indication that I was in possession of an illegal drug.
Principal Stewart gave me a quizzical look when I set the marijuana pot on his desk. Not an incredibly bright man, he likely wondered why I was gifting him with a scrawny little plant in a throw-away coffee cup. Always for the underdog and those a bit dimmer than the average primate, I gave him a clue: “I found this marijuana plant on my desk this morning. I wasn’t sure what to do with it so I brought it to you.” Then I walked out of his office. End of incident. Not one word about it ever again from anyone. No police, no drug-sniffing dogs, no red-faced adults lecturing about the evils of smoking pot. Nothing. Principal Stewart and I didn’t have much in common except a love of low-key problem solving. He followed my lead and never acknowledged the anonymous locally sourced gift. I felt great delight in thwarting some kid’s attempt to create an adult drama just so he (she?) could stand back, look wryly amused, and say, “Some of my finest work.”
My aplomb was tested again several years later by a new generation of students who took a more direct approach to exploiting teachers as entertainment, which could have been the undoing of my composure had my mother not been a biology major who used every hapless woodland creature she came across as an opportunity to teach my sisters and me up close and personal lessons about wildlife. How could my students know I didn't meet the criteria for the stereotypical fastidious English teacher? How could they know cleaning chickens for the dinner table was also a lesson in poultry anatomy? (Cleaning a chicken isn’t about bathing a hen. It is about your mother wringing its neck, ripping its feathers off, and gutting it carefully to avoid strewing internal nastiness all over the flesh that would soon be fried up and served with gravy.) My students did not perceive the barefooted farm girl under my well-cultivated teacher facade. When a group of junior high thrill-seekers trouped into my room and said, “Mz. Woods, we wanna show you somethin’” and one of the boys thrust a wiggling, green garden snake under my nose, I reached for it with an admiring “Oh, how pretty.” They had been holding their collective breath in anticipation of Mrs. Wood’s scream. Their disappointed exhalation was audible. With simulated sternness, I handed the snake back to the leader of the group and exhorted him to return it to its home fully intact. They trouped out, heads down, and properly chastened. My pride swelled. I had just trumped a bunch of seventh graders. I could handle anything.
Although maintaining my composure in surprising situations has been a source of pride for me, it doesn’t require much effort on my part since I am naturally shy and displays of drama make me cringe. I am, however, embarrassed to admit there have been times that reason abandoned me, and my reactions were out of character. Those times always involved Ex-husband.
I can’t even remember the topic of the argument that caused me to go berserk the first time. Mostly, when Ex-husband and I had a disagreement, I went into quiet mode. He was brought up in an arguing family; I was not. If it was unpleasant, my family didn’t talk about it. In his family, however, the more unpleasant the topic, the more likely they were to scream at each other about it. Even though I lost my cool during this particular argument, I didn’t scream. I did think about running over him with my car, but I didn’t want to do it in front of our children. Anyway, I couldn’t think of a way to induce him to stand outside the garage while I backed the car out. So I did the next best thing. I threw bricks at his new shop building. He was proud of that building and for convenience had built it close to the house. Too close to suit me. It was a big, tin monstrosity with a tall, rust-coated diesel fuel tank parked in front of it. It was a perfect target—the building, not the diesel tank. I might have been crazy angry, but I wasn’t stupid.
With Ex-husband still yelling at me, I walked out of the house gritting my teeth and headed to a pile of bricks stacked against the shop. With very little thought and a great deal of focus, I picked up a brick, backed away just far enough to get good leverage, and heaved the brick smack into the shiny new tin. At the same time I let out a bellow that came from the pit of my stomach and made the hair on the back of my own neck stand up. My God, that felt good. So I did it again. And again—until my arm ached and that brand new, heretofore unsullied eyesore sported at least three brick-sized gashes.
Spent, I sat down on the ground and sobbed—not because I was sorry I had damaged Ex-husband’s building or because my two children, ages fourteen and eight, had seen their mother lose her mind. No, I cried because I’d forgotten how good throwing a temper tantrum could feel. Only running over Ex-husband could have topped this.
That’s the only time my composure completely abandoned me. Well, there was the time I threw a cup past my ex-husband’s head, and shards of glass stuck in the dining room paneling, but I don’t think that counts since I didn’t actually aim for his head. He was lucky. My imperturbability probably saved his life several times.
My psyche does have a dark and somewhat melodramatic side when it comes to food. I love food and will try almost anything edible. That doesn’t mean I will like it or ever eat it again, but I will give it a chance. I ate sushi when it was real and raw, long before the civilized California roll that appeals to the palate of European origin. I was attending a conference in Denver, and my cousin, who grew up on brown beans simmered all day, cornbread baked in an iron skillet, and potatoes fried in lard, wanted to show off his new-found sophistication. He took me to an Asian restaurant and ordered sushi. (I have since learned that sushi was not the correct name for the slices of raw salmon, tuna, and octopus served on a wooden board with a dab of sinus-clearing wasabi on the side—not that calling it sashimi made much difference.) I did not want to appear squeamish about eating something that looked like fishing bait, so I ate with gusto. Well, maybe not gusto, but I ate it. It was okay. It was certainly not the cornmeal-crusted fried catfish I grew up with. The salmon sort of fell apart in my mouth. Some might say it was so tender it melted in the mouth. They would be more diplomatic than I am. It was mushy and raw. I prefer my salmon mixed with egg, cracker crumbs, and onion and made into patties fried in hot grease—if I got one of those soft bones in the middle of the patty, that was an extra treat.
The raw tuna was firmer than the salmon. I could actually chew it, but I’m not sure that was an advantage. Tuna from a can is much different than tuna from the ocean. Maybe that’s why the octopus was my favorite of the three; I had no reference point for it. I had not yet enjoyed the delight of fried calamari or squid grilled in garlic butter, so without comparison raw octopus wasn’t too bad although I can say I have never craved it since. Regardless of my internal misgivings, I managed not to embarrass my cousin. I thanked him profusely for expanding my gustatory horizon. The next time he came to visit me in Oklahoma, I repaid his kindness by throwing sophistication out the window and serving him brown beans, cornbread, and fried potatoes. He ate four helpings.
While I try not to show prejudice against food I have not yet tasted, I do have my food preferences. I’m a big fan of anything hot and spicy. If it doesn’t sear my tongue, it’s probably too bland. As a child, I did not like raspberries or avocados, but I knew I would someday so I kept trying until they made a positive impression on my palate. It hasn’t worked for Brussels sprouts. I just don’t like the taste of those nasty, little cabbages.
Disliking something for its taste is not irrational; disliking it for its emotional value is very irrational. And I am thoroughly irrational in my dislike of cheeseburgers—to the point of rudeness (and I am never rude). I have embarrassed my children by complaining to a waiter about the intrusive cheese on my hamburger. I have returned hamburgers that came with mayonnaise instead of the preferred mustard. A hamburger is a sacred flavor of my childhood, a flavor accompanied by a chorus of angels. The patty must be good quality meat squashed thin on the grill so it can reach all the edges of the bun which has been toasted in hamburger grease and flattened with the same spatula used to turn the patty. That way the bun soaks up all that lovely caramelized meat flavor. Each half of the bun must be slathered with a layer of plain yellow mustard, then beginning with the bottom half, the burger must be assembled in this order: thinly sliced sweet onion, dill pickle slices, hot meat patty, homegrown tomato slices, and a crisp leaf of iceberg lettuce. This is the way God intended for us to eat hamburger meat. I’m sure it’s in the Bible—something about a fatted calf.
Anything that pretends to be a hamburger or a variation thereof cannot be justified. Call it an educated hamburger or a cheeseburger, I still don’t like it, and I am determined that I never will. Even my passion for Sweden couldn’t mitigate the horror I experienced when hamburgers there were served with globs of mayonnaise. In defense of their food—and there is not a lot to defend—the Swedes really know how to fry potatoes. Still, that doesn’t make up for what they did to hamburger meat, which I suspect was a flattened meatball.
My intense animosity toward cheeseburgers became apparent when Ex-husband brought one home to me for supper. There was a bag from Braum’s on the kitchen counter, and I thought, “How uncharacteristically sweet of him to bring me a hamburger!” Since this was a rare occurrence, I wanted to reinforce his behavior so I began silently rehearsing a warm but not too effusive thank you. “Oh, sweetheart, thank you so much for bringing me a hamburger for dinner.” No, that wouldn’t work. I never called him sweetheart. He would question my motive. He might even get up out of his recliner and come to the kitchen to see if I were alright. How about, “It was nice of you to pick up hamburgers for supper. Thanks.” No, couldn’t do that either. The word nice would stick in my throat and probably choke me. Better stick with “Thanks for the hamburger.”
While ruminating on the appropriate response to this unexpected windfall, I set out a plate, opened the bag, and inhaled deeply. Hmm. Not quite the satisfying mustard-onion smell I had anticipated. Maybe the cook had skimped on the condiments a little. No problem. I had plenty of mustard in the fridge, and if need be, I could slice up an onion. I unwrapped the burger. Something akin to electric shock skittered down my spine. Was that cheese stuck to the wrapper? Oh, dear. There was cheese on my hamburger. I breathed deeply. I could handle this. I would scrape it off and apply mustard. I could manage to eat it. No need to hurt Ex-husband’s feelings.
I placed the flawed burger onto the plate and lifted the top half of the bun to scrape off the offending cheese and to add extra pickle slices. This time I actually stepped away from the counter. Mayonnaise, ugh. No way I could eat that thing. It was an abomination. My composure dissolved. Had the server at Braum’s gotten the order wrong? It had happened before, and I always politely returned the alimentary mistake. I had to know the truth. Had he actually ordered me a cheeseburger? Well, yes, I liked cheese didn’t I? After forty-one years of marriage and my vociferous dislike for these culinary mistakes, he ordered me a cheeseburger?
Something in me snapped. It was as audible as a snake-wielding seventh-grader’s disappointment. I gripped the cabinet and counted to ten, but the dismembered cheeseburger taunted me. I thought about bricks and his shop building. I thought about my car, but it was a Prius and running over him would probably do more damage to it than to him. So I did what any woman whose childhood food fixation has been debased would do. I divorced him, but not once did I yell.
